nds? Make haste then, this way: the eggs are hot and
waiting."

The dining-room into which the guest was conducted betrayed a feminine
touch not visible in the smoke-dimmed quarters of shop and cabinet. At
the windows were curtains of laughing chintz and pots of pink geranium.
The table, under a drop-light in a flame-coloured silk screen, was
brightly set with silver and blue china. In a cut-glass decanter
sparkled a ruddy brown wine. The edged tool of Advertising felt his
spirits undergo an unmistakable upward pressure.

"Sit down, sir," said Mifflin, lifting the roof of a platter. "These
are eggs Samuel Butler, an invention of my own, the apotheosis of hen
fruit."

Gilbert greeted the invention with applause. An Egg Samuel Butler, for
the notebook of housewives, may be summarized as a pyramid, based upon
toast, whereof the chief masonries are a flake of bacon, an egg poached
to firmness, a wreath of mushrooms, a cap-sheaf of red peppers; the
whole dribbled with a warm pink sauce of which the inventor retains the
secret. To this the bookseller chef added fried potatoes from another
dish, and poured for his guest a glass of wine.

"This is California catawba," said Mifflin, "in which the grape and the
sunshine very pleasantly (and cheaply) fulfil their allotted destiny.
I pledge you prosperity to the black art of Advertising!"

The psychology of the art and mystery of Advertising rests upon tact,
an instinctive perception of the tone and accent which will be en
rapport with the mood of the hearer. Mr. Gilbert was aware of this,
and felt that quite possibly his host was prouder of his whimsical
avocation as gourmet than of his sacred profession as a bookman.

"Is it possible, sir," he began, in lucid Johnsonian, "that you can
concoct so delicious an entree in so few minutes? You are not hoaxing
me? There is no secret passage between Gissing Street and the
laboratories of the Ritz?"

"Ah, you should taste Mrs. Mifflin's cooking!" said the bookseller. "I
am only an amateur, who dabbles in the craft during her absence. She
is on a visit to her cousin in Boston. She becomes, quite justifiably,
weary of the tobacco of this establishment, and once or twice a year it
does her good to breathe the pure serene of Beacon Hill. During her
absence it is my privilege to inquire into the ritual of housekeeping.
I find it very sedative after the incessant excitement and speculation
of the shop."

"I should have t